I
tin cups become cold the fastest, with breath distracted by air more or less filling with smoke
i've got to stop picking such nostalgic scents, they stick to the wrists of all my coats
and when I go to wipe my nose, my mother's right beside me
really she's those hundred miles away
dancing one step
or two closer to my new room
but then one step
or two back towards home


II**
it's like this
roses and a
musk
settled in with old dust
she's not to share it with anyone
because it's swimming in streams with my platelets and memories

of black **** carpets howling at the kitchen door
a bed nestled in drawers
and iron gated windows crowded with fear